


Foundations

by silvercolour



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 years of pining take some time to resolve but they’re getting there, Cooking, First Kiss, Holding Hands, M/M, Post-Canon, first date- sort of they’ve known each other a while, less-than-sudden realizations, soft, we be yearning here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercolour/pseuds/silvercolour
Summary: It took but a thought for the world to go back to normal after not-Armageddon.It takes far longer for Crowley and Aziraphale to get used to the New Situation.This is the story of how they find their way.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 89
Collections: Promptposal





	Foundations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



> Written as a GO prom(pt)posal gift for the ever-lovely KannaOphelia who wrote me [ this amazingly cute and wonderful gift! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469429) .Thank you for the prompts you sent, I had a lot of un writing this!
> 
> I hope you like your gift!

  
It took but a thought for the world to go back to normal after not-Armageddon.

It takes far longer for Crowley and Aziraphale to get used to the New Situation.

What do you do when the being who has been your adversary, your opposite since the Beginning, is no longer that? What does an angel do -and what does a demon do- when the shaky ground on which they built their bond is taken away? What does one do when one is given a new, solid foundation?

They do the only thing that seems logical. They start again.

Crowley suggests lunches at the Ritz. Aziraphale invites Crowley to the bookshop for drinks. They seek each other out more and more, now that they have the freedom to do so. They carry on as they always have. Together, but at a distance.

More and more often they find that a quiet stretch between them, mixed in with the conversations they have had many times before, and observations -on humans, about animals, about anything and everything- like they have been making for millenia. The silences are–

Well…

Aziraphale would say these are serene, and comfortable quiet moments. And they are that, simply sitting together in his shop, in parks and in restaurants. He enjoys many things, and has long ago realized that enjoyable things are much better when Crowley is there with him. 

However, even as he thinks it he senses the incomplete truth behind his own thoughts. The silence does indeed feel comfortable, it’s not a bad silence. But this silence feels like it wants to be filled, like it could be more than it is.

Crowley would say the silence is a lull, no more than a break in their conversation. To him it isn’t a silence that’s waiting to be broken, to be disturbed. The silence is content to simply be, and he is content to let it be. The quiet reminds him of dinners out with Aziraphale, simply looking at the angel enjoying dinner without feeling the need to partake of any dinner himself.

That is what they would say about the silences they find themselves in, but they would have to break this mostly-content, taking-a-break silence to do that. So they don’t, at first.

Crowley has many years of experience with lying, and noticing lies being told is one of his better skills. He knows this incomplete truth for what it is, knows that for something to be a break rather than an end, there must also be a continuation. 

And while watching Aziraphale savour a meal does indeed bring him immense delight, it is truly a lie to say he does not wish to partake. He does, if not of the meal. Crowley wishes he could share in Aziraphale’s joy, in the delight of a good meal well made that makes the angel so very happy- craves it even, if he’s being very honest with himself. 

And so Crowley is looking for a continuation to the break, to the silence. He has not found it- not yet. 

* * *

It takes time, but slowly they each realize that starting again when you already think you know what you’re building isn’t as simple as starting where you left off. Like a newly knitted sweater cannot compare to your favourite old sweater, even if it is knitted using the same pattern- like a house built as a copy of your old house cannot _be_ that old house, no matter how much you tell yourself it is the same. Especially when you are building on a different foundation.

Just because something used to be a certain way does not mean it has to remain the same. And those differences may in fact be a very good thing..

It takes time for them both to come to this realization, and then some more time before they _act_ on it.

Finally, they really start anew. It goes something like this:

Aziraphale has been realizing that he wishes he could- could touch Crowley, could hold him, could hug him, could- could be closer to the demon, in any way. In a physical way. This has been on his mind for some time now, even before not-Armageddon, and the Reset. Before the Reset, however, there was simply no chance of this happening. For both their safety, it was better to simply keep his distance.

Now, after the Reset, Aziraphale has found the temptation to be closer to Crowley becoming too strong to bear. They have been meeting more than ever, and he is never bored. Simply being near Crowley is enough to capture all his attention. It’s driving Aziraphale to distraction, even as he looks forward to their next meeting from the moment they part ways.

Tonight they are at the National Theatre, watching a particularly funny version of Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing. It’s a delight of a show, and Aziraphale can tell that both the cast members and the audience are having a grand time. Yet it all seems no more than background noise to the fact that Crowley is slouched in the seat next to him.

Crowley appears to be enjoying the show as much as the rest of the audience, his seat having stretched to accommodate his relaxed posture and the row in front of them making space for the long, leather clad lines of his legs. In one elegant hand he holds the stem of a champagne glass. His other arm is slung over their shared armrest.

It does not appear to be an invitation, simply an extension of Crowley’s relaxing. And yet Aziraphale finds himself overcome with a desire to hold that hand, and possibly never let go again.

It is there, in that theatre, halfway through the second act, that realization hits Aziraphale. He could simply take Crowley’s hand. They are no longer technically-enemies, they need not hide the bond they share. There is nothing stopping him but his own inaction. 

Even so, it takes Aziraphale almost until the end of the show to gather the nerve to take action. He figures (overthinks, possibly) that if Crowley does not enjoy holding hands (why wouldn’t he, there’s no harm in it, is there) then at least the show will be over shortly, and he might let go (he’d rather not) and they needn’t think of it again.

Crowley has been slouching ever deeper, his chair stretching further as the show and the champagne continue. By Aziraphale’s count there shouldn’t be more than a few minutes left in the show. He chides himself: has he not faced Armageddon, and Gabriel and Beelzebub both, without hesitation or doubt? Why should this be any scarier than they?

So he unfolds his own hand, and crosses his arm over Crowley’s, and takes his hand in his own. He has never felt braver, he thinks- when Crowley flexes his fingers. And twines them properly between Aziraphale’s. They stay like that for the too short time left in the show.

* * *

Crowley had been looking for a way to progress beyond what their… relationship? Can you call pretending-to-be-enemies a relationship? He isn’t altogether sure. Regardless, Crowley had been looking for a way to become closer to Aziraphale. To share the joy Aziraphale seems to find in meals, in good books, in the flowers blooming in the park, in so many simple things.

To share it, and hopefully to cause it.

He had not been looking for Aziraphale to find a way first.

He freezes for a moment when Aziraphale folds his hand into his own- forgets everything but the sensation of the angel’s soft skin against his own palm- before old instincts kick in and he attempts to play it cool. He keeps looking at the stage as he grabs Aziraphale’s hand in return. This is how they remain until the end of the show, holding hands and not-looking at each other, until the end of the play, and it seems only polite to release Aziraphale’s hand so they can both applaud the actors.

Crowley wishes he didn’t have to.

He kicks himself later for trying to play things cool. He should have done more, should have taken Aziraphale’s hand on the way out, on the way back home perhaps (the angel would never have let him, considers driving one handed dangerous, nevermind that the car always does what Crowley wants). Shouldn’t have fled (there’s really no other word for it) when Aziraphale shyly invited him in for drinks (shyly? Is he projecting? Imagining things? They’ve done drinks so many times before, why would Aziraphale be shy now).

Through the night Crowley finds himself pacing his flat, considers fleeing further, even as he regrets his earlier flight. His house seems both too small and too empty at once. He might truly have tried to run, if not for the fact that they had already agreed to Sunday lunch at the Ritz before they even set foot in the theatre. It wouldn’t do to abandon Aziraphale on their- their _appointment._

In between pacing Crowley catches himself staring at his hands- at the hand that held Aziraphale’s like it was made for the very purpose. How could such a small action, something so simple, cause such turmoil in him, he wonders.

He resolves to find out tomorrow. He continues pacing through the night anyway.

* * *

Once at the Ritz Crowley feels his resolve melting like snow before Aziraphale’s sun. He spends most of the meal rethinking every thought that has passed through his mind last night, before coming to the same conclusion: he’ll be damned if he lets another opportunity pass him by to hold Aziraphale’s hand again. And how strange a thought it is, hold hands _again_ , even if this will only be the second time _._

So he reaches over to Aziraphale, and takes the hand not holding his forkful of food.

Aziraphale’s focus on his food is derailed violently yet softly, when he feels Crowley’s hand in his own. _Again._

Crowley sees Aziraphale’s food fall from his fork as the angel looks at their hands, then up at Crowley, while a deep blush spreads like wildfire from his cheeks across his face.

A thought flashes through Crowley’s head, but before the ‘what if-‘ can fully form into any number of bad scenarios it is chased away by the _smile-_ a radiant, soft, wonderful smile- that follows the blush to alight Aziraphale’s face.

All Aziraphale says is: ”Crowley.” His smile is as clear in his voice as much as it is visible on his face, and to Crowley it sounds like a blessing, a benediction. It is permission, and agreement, and reciprocation.

It is the most wonderful sound Crowley has ever heard.

He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, who squeezes his in return. This time neither lets go as they finish dinner. Nor when they walk back to Aziraphale’s shop. Nor when Aziraphale invites him in for drinks- which Crowley accepts this time.

* * *

The next step is taken by Crowley some time later. To say he has gotten used to being able to hold hands with his angel- being _allowed_ to enjoy this- would be a monumental lie. Yet Crowley craves more, more of anything and everything Aziraphale, more of his smiles, and the joy he radiates seemingly without noticing.

This step is scary, and uncertain, and he made it completely unthinkingly.

He said it because he wants to see Aziraphale happy, wants to be the cause of that happiness, of all the joys he feels for the simple and wonderful things.

What he said is this: “Want to come over to my place for dinner next, angel? I can cook for you if you’d like.” 

The journey of surprise-delight-adoration that passes across Aziraphale’s face is echoed in the summersault his own stomach seems to perform.

“Oh my dear, I didn’t know you cooked! I would be absolutely _delighted_ to!”

Which is why Crowley is now standing in his own kitchen, having a small (or not so small actually) breakdown while cooking seafood for Aziraphale.

Crowley’s problem with food has always been that he just doesn’t feel like eating more than a few bites- and only if it’s very good food or drink. He suspects it’s something to do with having been a snake. All food smells very _very_ intense to him, and any food not cooked perfectly quite simply smells awful.

It’s the reason why he’d been forced to learn to cook for himself, on the thankfully rare occasions he found himself forced to stay in places where no one seemed to know how to cook something even vaguely edible.

The crusades come to mind, and the shudder the memories provoke is enough to shake him out of his spiralling thoughts.

Miracled food isn’t bad, of course. It’s good enough that Crowley will eat it if there’s nothing else. But there is always a strange, slightly off taste to it. It tastes too much like the thought of that food, and never quite like the actual food should. Which is why Crowley prefers to cook his meals the human way, whenever he feels like eating.

He knows he can cook, he can trust his skills and his own sense of smell. And he has a sneaking suspicion that Aziraphale will like anything he cooks simply because Crowley mde it for him.

Which will not do at all. He can’t cook just anything for Aziraphale. It has to be the very best, the angel deserves nothing less.

With this thought in mind he squares his shoulders, and faces the stove. Nothing short of perfection will do.

* * *

It is, without exaggeration, the best meal Aziraphale has ever had.

They are seated in Crowley’s dining room, which is a little too large and a little too spartan for the two person dinner table it now contains. They’re seated on the same side of the table, both facing the open doors of a plant-filled balcony, through which can be seen one of the most gorgeous sunsets Aziraphale thinks he has ever seen.

He is just finishing his dessert-a sorbet made by Crowley, who claims to dislike the sensation, if not the taste; something to do with snakes not liking cold much, Aziraphale supposes. They are on their second bottle of wine and Aziraphale has never felt more joy, more happiness, and more love for Crowley.

The thought halts his spoon halfway to his mouth.

He recognizes the truth behind the word. Love.

He loves Crowley.

His demon is currently looking at him strangely, confused as to why Aziraphale has stopped savouring his dessert. He has yet to say something.

The silence stretches, and waits to be filled.

So Aziraphale does. Not with words, but with actions.

He puts down his spoon next to the half-eaten sorbet and turns to face Crowley. He takes his hand. With his other hand he reaches for that sharp, angular face, and removes the sunglasses Crowley still hides behind.

Crowley has never looked more like a deer caught in the lights of a car than he does now, eyes wide and round and confusion trying to form a question.

Aziraphale does not let it.

He leans in, and presses his lips softly against Crowley’s, as though he’s afraid to break something.

Crowley’s lips feel soft and warm against his own sorbet-cooled lips. He stays there for a moment and an eternity.

Then he breaks away.

Crowley is still looking at him with those round, golden eyes, and Aziraphale uses the action of putting the sunglasses on the table as an excuse to look away for a moment, afraid of what he’ll see, afraid of what Crowley might _say._

If he should never get another chance to kiss Crowley he shall have this one at least, a memory to treasure until the end of days. But _oh_ he wants to do it again, he covets it, hungers for it.

He feels Crowley’s hand shift in his own, feels it let go, and his heart stutters for a moment- when that same hand returns to rest underneath his chin, and tilts his head back to face Crowley.

His eyes are no longer comically rounded, but glitter with an intent, a yearning Aziraphale feels just as much as Crowley.

The hand softly gripping his chin pulls him close and he feels his own lips fit together with Crowley’s so, so perfectly, it’s as though they were made for the very purpose. He feels Crowley’s hand on his hair, combing through his curls and he hums in soft pleasure. He cups his own hand to Crowley’s cheek, and lick his demon’s lips- Crowley opens his mouth at that, and Aziraphale seizes the chance to deepen the kiss.

The sun has set by the time they break apart.

Staring at each other in silence, Aziraphale has a thought.

This is how he wants to fill every silence. He wants to fill it with Crowley.


End file.
